Kafe Gavani – An Obscenity By Edgar J Barrett

Treenought

At some point in the past...

Pertinently aroused and at the same time humbled by the prospect of the
apocalypse, Nektar Crapopoulos began filling small Hessian bags full of sand as
he stood in his pastel coloured lounge room. The sky outside whirled in a red
tumult and the screams of chaos emanating from the city could easily be heard in
Taylors Lakes, where his modest yet fashionable three-bedroom dwelling sat in a
precise square of grass that happened to be the rest of the property.
Nektar’s spritely six-year-old adopted son, Little Germy, seemed blissfully
unaware of the implications of the wrath to come, naïve as children can be. He
skipped up to his father with a freckled face, hook-nosed and gap-toothed smile.
“It’s a beautiful life, isn’t it Daddy?” he asked.
“Yes, son, it certainly is,” replied Nektar, wondering what had prompted his son
to make such an inaccurate observation.
“My god,” thought Nektar as he gazed for a long time at the V of his son’s
crotch, “deep down I think I really hate this kid. Fuck!”
Nektar felt tainted by his own lie; the common rejoinder that parents oft make to
stupid assertions by their children that life was indeed wonderful. Life was a flea-
bitten dog’s ear filled with canker, the drippings of which suffused the mouths of
the blind with their hands furiously masturbating over half-truths fed to them by
those who manufacture their unspoken agreement.
“Blah, blah, blah,” spoke Nektar.
“I see. I see,” replied Little Germy, listening in faint awe like a ‘Peanuts’
character listening to a teacher speak. He stood dutifully, taking in his father’s
misplaced wisdom.
Germy added: “So all this is the consequence of psychotic, conservative
Christians who have hacked away at the soul by replacing all church leaders with
hairy plasticine figures named Morph? But why?”
Nektar was stunned.
“I’m not sure, son,” he said, “In fact, I don’t have a clue. Facts, in these cases,
are not important. What is important is that you choose a religion that leaves you
open to make your own decisions and hate all folks you despise, or those who have
a different skin colour or sexual orientation to yours. You see, in my religion, we
get a fresh body and some lube... ”
“Well in that case Daddy, I choose The Church of Pleasantly Tasting Good. That
Boris Hondroit character sure ‘peels to my intestinal tract. In fact, fascism in
general sure sounds swell!”
Nektar felt the insecurity of experiencing a role reversal between he and his son.
Little Germy was wise beyond his years – the little prick – and Nektar was just a

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 Kafe Gavani – An Obscenity By Edgar J Barrett

blithering old closet queen whose urethra was on the verge of giving way to a
torrent of fluid.
“Mother’s dead, isn’t she?” asked Little Germy as the screams and shotguns
from the city jumped out of the TV that Nektar had just turned on in the hope that
Germy would be distracted and change the subject.
“Daddy...?”
“Yes, son. Yes she is. You see I lied to you when I told you she was just visiting
your Aunt Chlamydia. She was in the middle of the riots when she was taken out.
Attempting to catch a bus driven by a PCP-addict is one sure way to catch a shit-
mobile to hell. Let’s just say her fallopian tubes ended up being used as
shoelaces.”
“Mummy wasn’t very bright, was she Daddy?”
“No, son. She wasn’t. She couldn’t see the pinheads for the cataracts.”
Nektar reflected for a brief moment. His wife’s death had been a source of grief,
smothering his tortured lamb’s heart. He instinctively knew that his time was
almost up, but his work had pulled him through. His head was a melting pot of
anarchical philosophy, bureaucratic processes, homicidal impulses and wholesome
family values given release by his work as an Aural Assault Claims Investigator.
Nektar lived for his work. Contracts with promoters and venues brought him into
contact with the highest denizens and lowest scum of the newly emerging punk
disco scene. He occupied a unique position in the music industry, investigating
compensation claims submitted by deafened punters. There were also cases
relating to live performances; assault, rape, criminal battery, pint glass theft,
defecation-induced trauma, incessant borrowing of cigarettes (and the like) were
all on the books. But now his beautiful plans for eradicating that crackpot
cacophony were all going to shit as society collapsed around him like the countless
victims of punk disco. Aural and other. And it seemed so meaningless.
The apocalypse continued unabated outside and Little Germy was giving Nektar
the shits with his insightful questions. He slumped in a chair and lit a Styvie,
dropping the lit match on the floor. Thoughts began to circulate around his brain:
My kid is smarter than me. The world is ending. Fuck the world anyway. I like
celery. Kill the rich. Kill the poor. I really like celery. Love those police. Fuck the
world again and again and again. I can’t stop thinking about celery. Destroy the
machinery of capitalism and embrace nomadic lifestyles. Fuck the world! I really
want to eat some celery.
A tear rolled down his face. When did he lose all his ideals, utopian or
otherwise? At what point did he change? It used to be easy to believe in
anarchism, revolution and insurrection. But at this point, all he could believe in
was his right hand (for various reasons). Maybe his son – that little cunt with those
tight little buttocks – could somehow pursue a different path.
A stray Molotov cocktail flew through the open window, leaving a brilliant trail

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of vapour and flame behind it. The curtains went up in flames. Little Germy
squealed and ran to his room excitedly. Nektar stood and stared, seduced by the
beauty of the orange licks as they slowly destroyed the room.
“But I only just washed those lavender curtains... last week.”
He knew there was nothing left for him, but he knew the escape pod in the bomb
shelter in the back yard was an ideal size for Little Germy. It was originally
designed for their dog, Fluppy. Little Germy could live on Mercury, where a great
deal of terra-forming and temperature control had been accomplished. Nektar
smiled as he picked up a plate and took a bite of Fluppy. All was not lost.
The sky was torn open. Meteorologically impossible daubs of colour sped their
way across the fiery red firmament. Nektar could feel the pained call of his
designer furniture as it was covered in flames. The floorboards moved in slow,
undulating waves beneath his feet, trying to rip themselves from their moorings.
Cupboard doors flung themselves wildly open, fanning the growing inferno.
Though Nektar thought the world was over, it wasn’t. It was going to limply raise
itself from the ashes (after all this went down) like a regenerating forest after a
bushfire. It was certainly not the end for the scum he had loathed so in his career.
He felt the polyester of his pants shrivel in retreat, on the verge of bursting into
flame. It was definitely the end for him.
Nektar edged slowly out of the room, still transfixed by the flames. His wicked
scrotum laughed maniacally. It enjoyed chaos.
He undid the safety on his handgun.

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Serialised online at www.kafegavani.com